40
“C ooking for a stupid cowboy like a stupid housewife,” I grumble, checking my phone for Dakota’s text and attached recipe. “I don’t believe it.”
But I am. A domestic, ridiculous chore I swore I’d never do.
I blame the sex. The cowboy taking care of me better than I deserve. That night at Nowhere. So much of our souls bared, we came together in ways I didn’t think were possible.
I limp across the creaky wood floor and pull a bowl from the cabinet.
With Wyatt at an auction out of town, I’ve decided it’s time to say thank you.
And maybe something else. That is, if I can work my way up to it.
The night after the bar fight, when Wyatt told me the reason he was in Arizona was to bring me home…
He came to get me. He would do anything for me.
I got it then.
My heart belongs to him. It always has. That feeling I had when I left Resurrection, what I wrote in that letter, welled up inside of me.
He’s become my safety net since my accident. My source of hope. Of calm. He’s seen me at my worst, knows all my flaws, and has still stuck around. Even when I can’t see him, I feel him. He is always coming for me, protecting me. That’s Wyatt. That’s why I love him.
A wild ride I’ll stay on as long as I’m alive.
As much as I’d like to stay stubborn and chickenshit, I can’t deny it any longer.
I read through Dakota’s recipe then set my cane on the back of a chair and head to the pantry. I rummage through the shelves. As I’m pulling flour off the shelf, a wave of lightheadedness sweeps me up.
“Fuck,” I whisper. I wait, and the dizziness clears.
Back at the counter, I measure out flour, salt, baking soda. I whisk them together, swearing as I make a mess all over the kitchen counter.
Wyatt better adore these fucking cinnamon rolls.
My mouth threatens a smile. Stupidity and hope hammer in my chest.
Love feels like it’s choking me. Clawing its traitorous way into my throat and daring me to say the words.
Maybe he feels the same way I do. Maybe he loves me back.
Creak .
The floorboards. A chill ripples over my spine. I glance over my shoulder. I’m imagining it. Nerves from the past. From Aiden. From this old house.
My eyes move to the window, focusing on the pasture and the barn. Even now, I itch to ride.
One thing he might not love is what I’ve been doing in secret. Sneaking out of the house to ride when he’s training at the ranch. He’s trusted me to tell him the truth, to be honest, and I haven’t.
Maybe it’s for the best that I wait. How can we commit? Even though Resurrection finally feels like home, I don’t want to stay here. I can’t. The restless urge to roam is clawing inside of me.
The rodeo, the road, is calling me back.
What does that mean for me and Wyatt? Our marriage?
Even if I stay, even if I tell him how I feel, there’s no guarantee this will work out.
No matter how much I want it to.
Using a water glass as a rolling pin, I roll the dough into something resembling a circle. I wince at the shoddy work. Dakota would have my head. One thing’s for damn sure, rodeos and cinnamon rolls aren’t for the fainthearted.
Ugh, this is what I’m reduced to. Cooking a man something edible and not poisonous?
And yet, my heart flutters.
“Shit,” I swear, glancing at the recipe. The oven should have been preheated thirty minutes ago.
Creak.
I freeze.
There it is again.
The slightest creak of a floorboard.
I turn around. Stare at the doorway that leads into the hallway.
Nothing. There’s nothing. There’s no one here.
But something about the emptiness makes me feel like I’m on display. Like I’m being watched.
Shaking off my nerves, I return to the recipe. I scan it once more. Shit. I need powdered sugar.
Gripping my cane in my hand, I limp down the hall to the basement door. I open it and stare into the dark. I swallow. I could call Dakota and wait for a delivery, but I can do this. Hell, I have to do it. Wyatt will be home in a few hours.
Done debating, I rest my cane against the wall. Using the banister as a grip, I lower myself onto the first step. It takes a few tries, my hip screams its protest, but I soon get a rhythm going.
“God, fuck this,” I huff as I bang my way down the stairs.
After what feels like hours, I finally make it into the basement.
It’s dim and dank. The only light comes from two sliding windows above the rumbling freezer. A light bulb with a long string hangs from the ceiling. Cobwebs in the corners. Shelves my father installed years ago line the back wall. Canned goods and batteries and a tower of horse feed.
I blow out a sigh and adjust my gait, reaching up to turn on the light.
My brain pushes back.
The light’s already on.
My heart floats up into my throat.
Someone’s been down here.
Don’t think of Aiden. Don’t overreact. Don’t fucking breathe.
I stay still, listening to the house, waiting. Not a sound.
But there is a smell.
Rotten eggs.
Pulse racing, I scan the basement.
A hissing sound comes from the furnace tucked away on the pale, shadowy wall.
Gas leak.
Who knows how long it’s been on. I think of the stove I almost turned on for that damn dessert, and my gut twists.
More sounds now. From upstairs.
Footsteps. Soft and slow, but unmistakable.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
My body wants to freeze, to shut down, transported back to that night with Aiden.
I move silently toward the stairs and watch the stairwell darken.
A figure.
It sends a wake-up call to my brain, and automatically, my fists ball.
Someone’s in my house.
Pulse spiking, my hands fly to my back pocket. I swear. My cellphone and my cane are both upstairs.
That little voice inside of me shrieks.
Out, out, get fucking out.
I’m not even thinking about it anymore, just doing it. I move backward as quiet as I can. The cement floor is cool on my bare feet. My breath comes in quick pants as I hurry to the freezer beneath the basement window.
My head feels foggy from the gas. Nausea curdles my stomach. Quickly, I shove a milk crate up against the freezer.
I grit my teeth, biting down on a scream as I place both palms on the freezer and heft myself up. Even the small action has sweat streaming down my brow, my spine. My hip rages.
Fuck. I’m going to hurt tomorrow.
On my hands and knees on the freezer, I breathe hard. My thinking’s getting fuzzy, my movements slow.
Spots dancing in my vision, I stand with a wobble. Bracing my legs, I flip the latches on the basement window. With a grunt, I shove it up.
I grip the window ledge, twisting my body hard to brace my feet on the wall. I see sunlight, see my street.
Almost there. Almost there.
With the last of my energy, I push myself up and through the window.
Gasping for air, I collapse face-first onto the front lawn. Blackness creeps along the edge of my vision. Something moves in my periphery.
The crunch of gravel.
Cowboy boots.
They get closer and closer.
No. No.
I let out a moan of protest and one last grunt of fighting struggle before my eyes roll back and darkness sweeps me under.